


Like falling

by Majinie



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Insomnia, M/M, NDE, Nightmares, dying, if you can call it that, or at least hints of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6626395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majinie/pseuds/Majinie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I fucking hate dying.”</p><p>The words slip out before he's really aware of himself again, still caught up in the haze of pain and terror that comes with every time he dies, because if there's one thing that stays it's that it's never pleasant. Whoever said that death could be nice and pleasant had definitely never died before.</p><p>Well, go figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like falling

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written in the middle of a night with a bout of feels, so I apologise if it doesn't make any damn sense. I just needed to get it out of my system.   
> Dammit, Jack.

“I fucking hate dying.”

 

The words slip out before he's really aware of himself again, still caught up in the haze of pain and terror that comes with every time he dies, because if there's one thing that stays it's that it's never pleasant. Whoever said that death could be nice and pleasant had definitely never died before.

 

Well, go figure.

 

He's crouched on the floor, curled up on his knees with his forehead pressed against the muddy ground beneath him, and his voice sounds miserable even to his own ears. But it's not like there's usually anyone there to hear him anyway.

 

Usually. However, he feels like he forgot something, the way it happens in the moments after he wakes up, it takes a moment for his thoughts to get back into a shape that's anywhere near coherent. After those moments, it all comes back to him, the way he died, the way it felt. He could really do without that.

 

But there's something different this time, isn't there? Something that he ought to –

 

“Jack? You alright?”  
  


Yes, right, that's what it was.

 

He straightens up and tries not to grimace at the twinge that runs through his body. It hasn't been fast this time, he remembers, he bled out after getting shot at, in the pouring rain, kneeling in the mud, and oh god, his coat must be ruined.

 

“Sure,” he replies with his usual lop-sided grin, looking up at the Doctor, whose (still unfamiliar) brown hair is sticking to his head and hanging down over his face in unruly strands. “'s not like anyone could do anything permanent anyway.” Except from robbing him of any hope of peaceful sleep in the following nights, he can already see that. It's normal, depending on how he died that time; despite it being a recurring theme by now, he can't find himself getting used to it. Doubts he ever will. “Sorry, just needed a moment. Did we lose 'em?”

 

The Doctor regards him with a hint of scepticism for a second before he straightens his tie and nods. “We did,” he answers. No Northern accent, a hint of Scottish, instead. He'll have to get used to that. “They – well. They assumed you'd be dead, so they didn't bother pursuing us any further.”

 

Jack smiles wryly and reaches up to wipe the mud from his face, which only results in him spreading what has been on his hand over his forehead, too. This time, he doesn't bother to hide his grimace. It's one of annoyance, not of pain, after all.

 

“Alright, seriously. I need a shower.”

 

~*~

 

Some hours later, he's aimlessly wandering the hallways of the TARDIS, never the same twice. The dim, orange lighting is enough for him to see, but doesn't hurt his eyes even in his exhausted state. He has his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans – hasn't even bothered to get into pyjamas, Jack knows better than to go anywhere near a bed right now. He's not going to stay asleep for long, and when he wakes up screaming, he'll wish he'd never gone to bed in the first place. It's always the same.

 

Dying is like falling. He hasn't tried it before, but he's sure that if he got burned, he would still feel that coldness in the end, right down into every bone and clinging to him when he jerks awake from the moments of blackness that feel like years and years on end and when he looks around, barely a minute has passed and he has to get up and act like he hasn't been dead for an eternity before he woke again. Like he hasn't been falling and can't remember what he hit that caused him to come back into consciousness like in one of those dreams where you stumble down stairs or a cliff or something and wake up with the impact. He has a lot of them lately.

 

The insomnia will pass in a few days' time. It usually does, when he's too strung out to stay on his feet any longer and collapses somewhere, on his desk or in a bar or wherever he happens to end up. Doesn't mean he sleeps well, but he sleeps, and that's something, right?

 

He sighs, rounding another corner. No matter how often he comes back from it, death never loses its frightening note. Sure, he knows it's not permanent, but maybe that's the problem. Every time, he dies with the knowledge that he will remember it later, remember how it feels, that particular sort of dying, different each time, and if he dares to forget, his nightmares will gladly remind him.

 

“You're awake.”

 

Jack startles and looks up from the floor to meet the Doctor's eyes, finding the Time Lord sprawled on a couch in what appears to be some sort of lounging room.

 

Feeling strangely caught, Jack responds: “You too.” Against his own volition, he feels himself going slightly tense, like he's expecting to be reprimanded.

 

The Doctor shrugs. “I don't need much sleep,” he states, but Jack knows the haunted look in his eyes. He sees it when he looks into the mirror on one of these nights, the nights when he evades sleep as long as his unnaturally durable body allows him to.

 

“Me neither,” he says in response, silently challenging the Doctor to call him out on his blatant lie.

 

He doesn't. Instead, he looks at the couch and then back at Jack. The immortal takes the hint, toes off his shoes and crawls up onto the cushions while the Doctor pulls his knees to his chest, then places his feet in Jack's lap as soon as he's sitting and goes back to whatever it is he's tinkering with. It's too soft, too comfortable, too _cosy_ , and Jack doesn't even notice that he's falling asleep. 

 

A while later, he is nudged awake, disorientated and a hint of fear threatening to crawl up in him, but he's been woken before the nightmare could get bad enough to make him jerk awake in panic and covered in sweat and tears, so he takes a deep breath and sends a grateful smile to where the Doctor is half-laying on the couch.

 

It gets returned, and they don't talk about it when they set the coordinates for their next destination in the morning.

 


End file.
